


Never Have I Ever

by Princess_Aleera



Series: Play a Game [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Crack, Kissing, M/M, Never Have I Ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Never have I ever," Tony says with a wolfish grin, "battled motherfucking aliens."</p>
<p>Clint and Tony (and the team) get drunk, fall into bed together, fall out of it, and fall back in again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Have I Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AuthorInDistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorInDistress/gifts).



> Although I technically wrote this as a prequel to Fix You, it is a stand-alone and does not share any of the warnings from that story.

Tony has the worst ideas ever.

That in itself wouldn't be such a huge deal, because ideas are _ideas_ and can be contained as long as they stay that way. But one of Tony's hidden superpowers is pitching, and the fucking _infallible_ ability to know just who he has to talk to to get someone onto his side, and then make said terrible idea into reality.

Which is, of course, why Tony has waited to tell Clint and Natasha until it's too late to stop it.

“No,” Clint says, resolute.

“Oh, come _on_ , Merida,” Tony says in his high-pitched whine that is completely put-on, because although it might seem that way, Tony Stark never begs. Clint actually has respect for that manipulation strategy – although that doesn't mean he approves of it being used on _him_. “Thor, Steve and Bruce are already in,” Tony adds in a sing-song voice.

“How on Earth did you manage that?” Natasha says, arms folded against her chest, exuding disapproval of the situation – but also a hint of intrigued curiosity that only Clint would be able to pick up on. And he can't help but be a little impressed, himself – Thor he might understand, but the other two?

“It was easy.” Tony shrugs like it was nothing, his smirk just shy of a full-on shark grin. “You know Thor loves any and all things that combine alcohol, trading stories, and the ability to learn more about 'Midgardian customs'. And Capsicle has a built-in hard-on for anything that might be considered team-building.”

Tasha's brows draw in half a milimeter, and Clint knows she – like him – is trying really hard not to think of their team captain's supposed hard-on. A small, annoying part of him wonders if Tony's actually been personally acquainted with Captain America's dick – and adds that if Clint wants to find out, this would be the perfect opportunity.

Clint quashes that voice so hard it groans in metaphorical pain and leaves him alone. “And Bruce?” 

Before Tony can open his mouth to reveal his secret, Natasha sighs. “You bribed him, didn't you?” She sounds disappointed, as if she'd hoped for something less obvious.

“How'd you find out?” Tony says, and looks dejected that his big reveal has been taken from him.

“That's how you got him to move in here,” Natasha points out. “And how you've managed to get him onto your side in nearly every single dispute since.”

Tony tries to look hurt, although he's doing a shit job at it, one hand dramatically resting against his chest in a _who, me?_ kind of way. “I am _wounded_ that you would think something that awful of me, Agent Romanoff. What me and Bruce have is a special, special thing.”

Nat does that weird thing when her gaze doesn't waver, but it still feels like she's rolling her eyes at them. Clint wonders if Tony and Bruce slept together. Then he wonders if Bruce can have sex at all without the Big Guy showing up.

… maybe Clint needs to stop thinking about his team-mates and sex so much.

“Anyway, I told everyone we could meet up at seven-ish, get some food,” Tony says and waves his hand in a circle for – Clint doesn't know, maybe emphasis. “I've got all the good stuff on my level anyway, so I'll bring it down, and Thor said he'd introduce us to proper mead. C'mon, it'll be a blast.” He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking more like an expectant child than a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Clint remembers reading Tony's file, and how much of it had culminated in Howard Stark and Tony's father issues.

It wasn't said outright, but the psycho-babble hinted pretty openly that most of Tony's reasons for being an attention whore was because of his deep-seated, emotional need for approval and belonging. Clint usually figures it's total bullshit, but in moments like these, he can't help but see Tony as a kid who just wants someone to pat him on the head and say “you did good”. It's a little cute and a lot sad, and Clint sighs when he realizes that he's going to accept Tony's invitation.

Natasha turns to him with an icy stare. “ _Weakling_ ,” she mutters in Russian and Clint grimaces.

Tony hasn't said anything while Natasha and Clint are doing what the rest of the team calls 'that mind-melding thing', but he looks twitchy and excited at Natasha's glare. “Come oooon,” he says now, and waggles his eyebrows in a seductive way that is about as sexy as the thought of Fury wearing a banana hammock.

“No shawarma,” Natasha says.

Tony actually fucking _whoops_ , a fist in the air and everything. “This is going to be so awesome, you guys,” he babbles, “and don't worry because I totally wasn't going for shawarma this time, I mean _I_ really like it, and I know Thor and Steve do, but Barton, you've got that _thing_ that you get because of Agent and I get it, so we'll just get some pizza or something – wait, how do you feel about Greek? I'm in a tzatziki mood.” All of this comes out on one, long breath, and halfway through, Tony pulls out one of his tablets and starts plotting in a search for nearby Greek restaurants.

“We could go with Greek,” Natasha says, and Clint just nods because yeah, sure. He likes tzatziki.

“Awesome, I'll go tell Cap,” Tony says and bounces out of there, excitement humming through his whole body.

Clint curses softly once he's gone and picks his bow back up. Two sets of arrows find their way to the target's center without him really concentrating.

“Maybe it won't be as bad this time,” Natasha muses. It's strangely optimistic, for her, and Clint wonders if the crazy genius has grown on her too. He's certainly grown on everyone else who lives in this tower – even Steve's stopped looking at Tony like a secondary version of his dad, and started smiling at the guy more.

“Yeah?” Clint says and picks up one of the acidic arrows; a prototype he's testing for Tony. “Then you get to be the one to tell everyone why we're not fucking each other.”

One beat. Then Natasha sighs, loudly.

“Yeah. Thought so.”

~*~

Never Have I Ever. The college drunk party's favourite, beside beer pong and Quarters. That's what Clint's picked up, at least, never actually having gone himself. There certainly wasn't a lot of it in the circus; only a couple of times with Barney and the older kids, mostly just as a ploy for Clint's brother to get laid. As Clint understands, the game's usually a ploy to get laid anyway, which makes him wonder why Tony wants to play it so badly.

Then again, Tony is equipped with a curiosity almost as big as his ego, and although people like Thor love boasting about their life and their past battles, Clint knows it's killing Tony to know so little about Natasha and Clint's pasts. Plus, the whole team probably wants to know whether Steve's actually a virgin or not.

It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye, though, which is why Clint doesn't like playing it. In past attempts of the game (most notably in SHIELD), someone eventually jokes about something like plucking out eyeballs with their fingers, and Clint and Natasha will both take a drink – being the only ones to do so – and the joy's kind of gone once everyone is disgusted by them.

Plus, you know, Clint has done a lot of stuff. A _lot_. Which means he usually ends up getting way drunker than the rest, and with two superhumans, a demi-god, a borderline alcoholic and a Russian as his competitors, Clint is screwed before the questions even start.

“So, how does this work?” Steve asks now, all childlike interest and polite excitement at his team's bonding activity. “I mean, are there any questions off-limits, or...”

“Yes,” Natasha and Clint say just as Tony says “Nope, none!”

Tony glares at them. “If there are _limits_ , the fun's gone. Don't be such a prude, Barton.”

Clint ignores the fact that Tony doesn't address Natasha – like he'd dare. Like any of them would. “Classified information. Sensitive information and details from missions. Shit like that.”

Tony narrows his eyes.

“You know I'm right, Stark.”

“Yes, Clint is right,” Steve says seriously. “This is a game, but we can't break the rules.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Rules, shmules. You're no fun, Cap. But fine, okay – if your taking a drink could lead to the universe spontaneously imploding, don't do it. Otherwise, all bets are off. Okay? And don't use the classified information clause to chicken out when the questions start to get interesting.” Tony glares at each and every one in turn, except for Thor, because TMI has always been a bigger problem than the opposite when it comes to him.

“Aye!” Thor booms anyway. He looks so goddamn excited it's all Clint can do not to smile at him. Because this is still a terrible idea, okay?

“Okay! Everyone get their drinks ready!” There's some bustling as Tony gets various snacks, unceremoniously throwing small packets of Cheetos, popcorn, M&M's and Skittles down onto the floor. He's honest-to-god pulled out a huge array of soft, big, fluffy pillows so they can all settle there. Natasha has her raspberry Stolichnaya in hand, and flops down gracefully on one of the pillows to tuck her feet underneath herself. She hasn't bothered with a glass.

Steve has a half-bottle of Captain Morgan Spiced with him, and puts it down carefully before settling. Nobody comments on it; it's clear that Steve doesn't expect to drink a lot. Clint wonders, if Steve figured most of the questions asked would be related to sex (and again, Clint wonders whether the good Cap's still got his super-hymen in place), why he still seems so interested.

Thor brings a keg – a fucking wooden _keg_ , ladies and gentlemen – to the floor, and cracks open the lid. A strong, almost sickly sweet wooden aroma fills the air, and Thor takes a deep whiff before sighing with contentment. He's got a big metal mug in hand (he still occasionally forgets the no-smash rule when he wants a refill of something, and it's just easier for them to give him metal mugs for now), and he sits down in an almost perfect lotus position. Clint wouldn't have pegged him as particularly bendy, but here he is, pulling off a move even Clint struggles with on some days.

Bruce is still quiet, but he does have a cognac glass in his hands when he sits down beside Steve, a glass containing what looks like Bailey's, or some other kind of creamy liquor. Clint never liked those, more one for sharp, searing taste than soft sweetness himself (and wow, isn't that a metaphor for his life). Bruce grabs one of the packets of Cheetos and looks around with that same calm, quietly interested-but-also-exasperated air he usually wears around Tony and his antics.

Clint figures he'll just steal Nat's drink; he didn't bother to buy anything for tonight, and he doesn't keep alcohol on his floor. He rarely drinks at all, actually. But when Tony returns with his own VSOP in hand, he hands Clint a bottle of Jim Beam.

“No chickening out, Barton,” Tony says as he flops down between Clint and Thor. Bruce and Steve sit on the other side, and between the six of them they make a semi-neat circle. Natasha clinks her bottle with Clint's.

“No glass?” Clint says and unscrews the cork. Mmm, he likes the smell of whisky. Not that fond of the taste, to be fair, but it'll do nicely.

“Only alcoholics use glasses,” Tony huffs and grabs a bag of M&M's.

Thor glances down at his jug of mead with a bemused expression.

“It's all right,” Tony says and pats his forearm. “You're an Asgardian. Blanket excuse.”

“I have no Asgardian blanket,” Thor says, and it's half a question and half just a resigned Thor who's long ago realized that along with Steve, he'll never be able to understand more than half of the stuff Tony says.

“Right! Everyone's got drinks, phones are off, all's well?” Tony peers around, jittery with excitement again. “Okay, I suggest we go clock-wise with people asking questions, _and_ I suggest that I start, since seriously, you guys. This is all my idea. I'm so awesome it hurts sometimes.”

Vague snorts from the rest of the team. Natasha plays with the label on her bottle. “You go ahead, Tony,” Steve says, and somehow manages not to sound condescending.

“Hmmm,” Tony says before popping a few pieces of colored candy into his mouth. “Okay, okay. We're starting. Okay? Okay. Go team go. Annnnnd...” he chews and looks thoughtful, even though they all know it's a bluff. “Okay. Never have I ever – ooh, wait, question.”

Clint groans. “We're never gonna get started, are we?” He lets himself fall back against the fluffy pillows and feels Natasha poke a finger into his side. He's not sure if it's a warning sign or a sign of affection, but he flops onto his stomach anyway so he faces the circle.

“Shut up, this is the last one. We play the fun rules, right? Where you can ask anyway, even though you've done it?” Tony seems to look mostly at Bruce, Natasha and Clint, since the two others haven't played this before.

“Wait, doesn't that defeat the purpose?” Steve asks.

“We are to speak untruth?” Thor asks, frowning at this new turn of events.

“What? No! Guys?” Tony says. “We gotta have that rule. Right?”

“Yeah,” Clint coincides, because really, half the fun is getting to tell shit you've already done and see who else have done the same.

“It's not about lying,” Bruce explains. “But you can say something you have done – like, 'never have I ever eaten a cheeseburger' – it just means that you have to drink, like everyone else who has done that particular thing.”

“Eaten a cheeseburger – really?” Tony snarks.

“Don't start, Tony.”

“Ah, I understand!” Thor says, looking delighted again. He speaks with exclamation marks a lot, and that only gets worse as he gets drunk, Clint knows. It's entertaining, if not hell on the ear drums. “Please proceed!”

Steve looks a little uncomfortable at the thought of semi-lying – which is really too cute – but he settles and unscrews the cap on his bottle.

“Okay,” Tony says with a wolfish grin. “Never have I ever battled motherfucking aliens.”

One beat. Then Thor throws his head back and laughs, clinks his jug against Tony's bottle and takes a long swig. Clint and Natasha drink, and Clint's a little confused – until he sees that both Cap and Bruce have relaxed a fraction, their smiles looser when they each raise their drinks.

Huh.

He glances over at Tony, who's cheering and talking about the Chitauri invasion with Thor, and notices that the billionaire keeps glancing over at the two quietest men in the room to make sure they're having a good time.

Clint wonders, in the privacy of his own mind, if Tony actually did choose this game for team bonding – and not just to determine the virginity of Captain America. The thought is kind of baffling.

“Your turn, L'oreal,” Tony says and claps Thor on the back.

“L'oreal? That is a fine name, indeed,” Thor muses. “I have not encountered it before.”

“Well, that's my new nickname for you,” Tony says with a wide grin. “Because you're worth it.”

Bruce snorts. Thor looks thoroughly charmed. “Why, thank you, Anthony!”

Clint chokes on his whiskey when he laughs.

~*

“Never have I ever...” Bruce swirls his half-emptied glass once, before looking mischievous. “Peed in a suit.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Tony whines. “That was one time and I was drunk! _And_ , I might add, the suit had a filtration system.”

“Drink, Tony.”

Tony knocks back his bottle and glares at his science-brother.

“Wait,” Clint says. “Is it just _in_ a suit, or _on_ a suit as well?”

Natasha's mouth quirks upwards in what, on a lesser person's face, would constitute as a fond smile.

“Wait, what?” Tony says, whipping his head around to pin Clint down with his eager stare. “Oh, now you _have_ to tell, Barton. It's the rules.”

“The rules say that I have to drink if I've done it,” Clint says just to piss him off. “It's my choice whether to tell the details or not.”

“It counts,” Bruce says, and Clint obediently drinks.

“Cliiiiiint,” Tony whines and elbows him in the side. “Story time.”

“It's not a big deal,” Clint says, overly casual, and does a one-shouldered shrug. “I just had a shit handler once; treated me like the dirt under his shoe. So after a mission, I... y'know.”

“You _peed_ on his _suit_?” Steve asks, and sounds half gleeful and half scandalized. Man, Clint loves it when the Captain goes all 'shouldn't approve of this but I do' on them.

“Clint, are you in fact five?” Tony says, but he looks impressed. Thor seems to think it's all hysterical.

“Trust me, Cap, he fit neatly in the bully category,” Clint says with a smirk. “And I didn't so much pee on his _suit_ as I peed in his bag – so technically, I guess I've peed on five suits.” He looks down at his rapidly draining bottle. “Does that mean I have to take five swigs?”

“Yes,” Tony says before Bruce can say “no”, and Clint just snorts and drinks up.

“If we ever disagree on missions, please don't piss on my things,” Bruce says with a wry smile.

“No promises, Banner.”

Natasha's smile widens just a fraction.

~*~

“Never have I ever... had sex with anyone else on this team.”

“Goddamn it, Tony,” Bruce sighs. “You were doing so well.” He's on his third glass by now, and most of them are getting foggy.

“What? I've been good! We've been playing this for an hour and this is my first sex question.” Tony points an accusing finger at his colleague. “Don't tell me you expected me to last this long.”

Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Drink up, all of whom this may concern,” Tony chirrups – and takes a long swig. Clint arches an eyebrow, but drinks; just like Natasha does, obviously. And okay, Tony was sort of expected, because, well. He sleeps around a lot. What Clint _doesn't_ expect is for Thor _and_ Bruce to drink; the first with his usual vigor, the latter with his eyes on the floor and color high in his cheeks.

Steve, the only one not drinking this time, looks exasperatedly at Tony. “Really?”

“Really,” Tony says with a wolfish grin.

“Are you trying to get a full set or something?” Clint asks, because it's pretty obvious that Thor and Bruce haven't tangoed, and he knows Natasha hasn't slept with any of them – aside from Clint, of course, but that's years ago now.

“What? No!” Tony snorts. “For one thing, that'd be pretty sucky of me. Secondly, I really don't want to bed Natasha.” He glances over at her, and she looks calmly back. “No offense, Widow, but you scare the shit out of me.”

“None taken,” she says, and Clint can practically feel her preening. Nat's gorgeous, and people always notice – but Clint knows she finds it easier to trust people that don't want to get in her pants. Or, 'trust' is a relative term, but yeah. So he smiles, too, and doesn't say anything.

“So you have all – except for Natasha, of course...” Steve trails off and looks at the rest of the team.

Tony and Clint share a look. “Nope,” Clint says.

“Not _yet_ ,” Tony says, eyebrows waggling.

“You wish, prettyboy.”

“Tony informed me that the post-battle bonding rituals of Asgard are much different to Midgardian customs,” Thor says with a serious nod. “It was not my first time with a shield brother, and I would be honoured to accept any of you as bedmates.” He grins widely.

Steve looks a little scandalized again, and even Nat's arched an eyebrow, but Tony waves them off. “It's a great warrior-thing compliment up there, trust me. Your virtues are all intact.” He pauses. “Unless you want to tap that, obviously, in which hey, I applaud that. Thor's a beast in the sack.”

Thor chuckles and the two of them fist-bump. _Actually fist-bump_. Tony is a terrible influence on everything ever.

“Right,” Bruce says and pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he usually does when Tony's being insane or Clint's being an asshole. Which is pretty often. “And it was for science,” Bruce says to Steve, “if you wondered. It was just an experiment to see how... far... I can go without the Other Guy making an entrance.”

“The things I do for science,” Tony says and blows Bruce a kiss. The other just rolls his eyes. “Okay, and you two are – you two, right?” he says and turns to Clint and Natasha. “Are you, like – are you?”

“You owe me ten bucks,” Clint says to Natasha, who shakes her head. Her locks dangle.

“Nuh-uh. It's past the hour mark.”

He looks up at the clock. Six minutes. Damn. He sighs and pulls out the ten he has in his pocket.

“Thank you,” she says and takes it, before turning her head towards Tony. “Clint and I aren't, and have never been, in a romantic relationship.”

“I noticed how 'romantic' and 'sexual' are clearly being two separate words here,” Tony says, sounding delighted. He rolls his bottle slowly between his fingers.

“But you do care deeply for each other,” Thor says and sounds – vaguely approving?

“Of course we do,” Clint says and grins. “We're best buds.” He knows Natasha's bristling at 'buds', but he's just tipsy enough to get away with it for now. She'll kick his ass on the next training, but that's cool.

“Damn, I was so sure,” Tony says and taps his finger against his chin. “Does that mean you're single, Barton?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Clint says easily and takes another swig of Tony's Jim Beam. He makes sure that his lips are wrapped around the spout, and he knows Tony's watching.

~*~

“Never have I ever... been on top of the Chrysler Building,” Steve says. He doesn't drink; everyone else does – even Thor. “Right.”

“Really, Cap?” Tony grimaces. “That's just plain sad. Remind me to take you there one of these days, okay? Before some aliens come and blow it up.”

“We could make a trip out of it,” Bruce muses. “Go, all of us. I haven't been there since I was a kid.”

Natasha hums in agreement, and Thor looks delighted. (Then again, Thor usually looks delighted.) “Aye, a quest!” he says and bangs his jug against the floor, and Clint is once again glad they stopped giving him glass mugs.

“See?” Tony says and gestures at the circle they make, most of them slouched comfortably on the large pillows. “This is the great thing about Never Have I Ever. You _learn_ stuff about each other.”

“And of course _you_ didn't have any ulterior motives at all,” Bruce says, smiling.

“Not-a-one, my dear Banner.”

“Alright.” The doctor folds his hands in his lap. “Never have I ever... been in more than a hundred countries.” He takes a sip of Bailey's, and Clint, Natasha and Tony follow his lead.

“Missions?” Steve asks, smiling, and Clint and Nat both nod.

“I travel because I'm awesome,” Tony says. “And because I'm Iron Man.”

“Of course.” Steve's smile turns rueful, and Clint's a little proud that the Cap is slowly learning that sarcasm is the best way to deal with Tony Stark. 

“Never have I ever been stabbed in the back,” Natasha says and takes a pull of her Stoli. “I mean that literally.”

“Always with the dramatics,” Clint teases and drinks. So does Steve, to their slight surprise.

“Nazi,” Steve says. “After the serum. I healed up quickly.” They fall into a brief silence, before Clint decides that fuck it, they're heading there anyway and there's no point in letting Stark have all the fun.

“Never have I ever had sex with a dude. Other than someone on the team.”

“Oooh, yes, I like this!” Tony says before drinking. “I have an ally! A sex ally!” He squirms happily where he sits and knocks his elbow against Clint's in what's probably supposed to be a companionable gesture. Clint rolls his eyes.

“Really, Barton?” Natasha mutters and drinks with him.

“Okay, a _member of the same sex_ , then. Better?”

She huffs a laugh and drinks again. So does Thor. Bruce leaves his glass on the floor – huh, looks like Tony was the exception to a rule, then – and then everyone's looking at Cap.

Steve sighs. “Really? You could have just _asked_.” And then he pointedly raises his second rum bottle and drinks.

“Aha!” Tony says, excited and gleeful. “I _knew_ there's no way your spangly ass hadn't gotten some action. Steve, you animal, you.”

“Please stop talking,” Steve says, calm even if the tips of his ears are tinged pink.

Bruce looks contemplative. “Do you mind if I – you don't have to answer if this makes you uncomfortable.” He waits until Steve's looking at him. “Was it... Bucky Barnes? I read about him in your file; you two seemed close.”

And the minute flinch and tightening of Steve's frame answers the question well enough, doesn't it?

“It was,” Steve says softly. And then adds, as an afterthought, “pre-serum, by the way. In case you... wondered.” He grimaces. The tension settles in like it plans to stay, but of course, Tony won't stand for that.

“So, Captain America's gay,” Tony says into his VSOP. “Fancy that.”

“What? No, I'm-” Steve breaks off, brows furrowing. “I like dames well enough, it's not that. I just – I guess it comes down to the person, and not their... equipment?” The last part sounds like a question, one of his 'is this something that makes sense in this century' ones. “I'm not really...” he huffs and his ears grow pinker. “Sex isn't very important to me. There's only really been Bucky that I wanted to... with. I don't know if that makes me gay or... something else.”

“Bucky-sexual?” Clint offers, and hopes it won't make the Captain even more wistful. But Steve smiles and nods, still looking sad but not too much. Clint kind of wants to hug the guy.

“Hmmm,” Tony says and pins Bruce with his science-stare. “I smell a demi, Brucie. Whaddya say?”

Bruce hums in agreement. “Would make sense.”

“Huh?” Steve looks between them. “Demi, is that a... bad thing?”

“Yes,” Tony says with a put-upon sigh. “It means the chances that I'll ever get in bed with you are depressingly low.” He takes a sulking swig of his bottle, and Steve looks adorably confused.

“There's nothing bad or wrong about it, Steve,” Bruce says, ever the reasonable parent of them (when he's not giant and green, that is). He even puts a hand on Steve's shoulder and squeezes. “Demisexuals only feel sexual attraction to people they have a strong emotional connection to. I'm not saying you are one, just that it might be a possibility.”

Steve's eyes are big and wondering. “So if I don't want to... that's not...”

“There's something called asexuality as well,” Bruce says. “It's not unheard of or even uncommon – it means you're not sexually attracted to anyone.”

“But I was,” Steve says, sounding a bit numb. “With Bucky, I was – it was... good.” He breaks the stare he's got going with Bruce and opts for staring at the floor with a lost look. “I just... haven't felt that way about anyone else. Although I, you know. Hugging and stuff, that's – I like that.”

“I could send you some info about demisexuality?” Bruce asks gently, his hand still lingering on Steve's shoulder.

“Yeah, that would – that would be great, doc,” Steve says with a relieved smile.

“Okay, that's it,” Clint says, because seriously, the guy looks like a puppy. Steve flinches and opens his mouth to presumably apologize or some bullshit, but Clint's already on his feet and stumbling over (whoa, yeah, this whiskey's kicking nicely) before half-falling onto the Captain.

“Wha- Clint?” Steve squeaks, like he thinks Clint will assault him or something. Heh. Fun thought.

But nope, that's not Clint's deal at all – he's been in enough dubious-at-best scenarios to never initiate sex with someone unless they're really really game for it – so when he lands in Rogers' lap, he slides his arms around the guy's ridiculously fit torso and pulls him close. Steve makes another squeaky sound, but less panicked this time, and Clint leans his head on the Captain's shoulder and presses their cheeks together.

“Barton – are you hugging Cap without his consent?” Tony asks, laughter in his voice, from behind Clint.

“Yup,” Clint says and squeezes Steve harder. After another moment of the Captain being stiff and awkward, Steve's posture relaxes and his arms come up around Clint's waist.

“Um, thank you, Clint,” he says softly. “I wouldn't – I mean, I didn't think you would be the one to hug me, if anyone would do it.”

Clint snorts into the good Captain's neck.

“Clint is an affectionate drunk,” Natasha says, amusement and exasperation coloring her tone.

“Traitor,” Clint mumbles, but doesn't disentangle – especially not when Steve laughs, quiet and warm.

He stays like that for another minute, listening to Steve's calm heartbeat against his own chest, before he disentangles, stands up and goes back to his pillows, ruffling Steve's hair on the way. Natasha's smirking, but there's no edge to it, and Steve's eyes are brighter than they've been most of the night.

“Thanks,” he says again. “That was really nice.”

“I know,” Clint says and doesn't so much sit down as he falls on his ass. Most of the bottle's gone by now, so yeah, he's gonna have a shit day tomorrow. “I'm awesome at hugging.”

“Really?” Tony asks, deadpan.

“Don't make me cuddle you, Stark.”

Thor laughs, and drapes an arm around Steve's shoulders to give him a half-hug of his own. “I too find it welcoming, the physical affection of my shield brothers – be it erotic or not.” He turns to Steve, and suddenly looks really serious. (Clint thinks Thor might actually be drunk at this point, too.) “You have my permission to 'cuddle' me whenever you so please, Captain.”

Tony and Clint fall over laughing, and even Natasha snorts, but it's a fond sound. Steve's gone red again.

“Thanks, Thor. I, uh, appreciate that.”

Thor nods, as if pleased with this approval, and empties his jug before refilling it. “Should we proceed? The game has not ended yet, has it?”

“Oh no, not by far!” Tony says. “We've got all the fun questions left!” He swirls his mostly-empty bottle and makes a thinky-face. “Never have I ever... taken it up the ass.” And he grins, all teeth and glee, as the rest of the team groan in exasperation. “Oh, come _on_! It's a totally valid question!”

~*~

“You really were serious when you labeled Clint an affectionate drunk, weren't you?” Bruce says to Natasha, and Clint giggles.

“And a happy drunk, as well,” she says with a sigh. They're all pretty smashed at this point, save for Bruce (who's going easy on the good stuff) and Cap (whose ridiculous metabolism has already blown through all the alcohol he's consumed, rendering him annoyingly sober, in Clint's opinion), but Natasha doesn't lose all her composure and walls when she's drunk, unlike... other people.

Other people who are not Clint, obviously.

“He's adorable,” Tony drawls, a noticeable slur in his words by now, and Thor laughs, because he's laughing at pretty much anything at this point. And Nat calls _Clint_ the happy drunk, hah. 

“Haaah,” he says into her shoulder, curled up close to her side, with an arm resting on her waist. She lets him. Nat knows that Clint's defences come down when he's drunk, which is why he does it rarely and only in the company of people he trusts. She also knows that Clint maybe, _possibly_ , might have this thing where – if he doesn't get cuddled – he'll feel rejected and go from happy drunk to wistful drunk. And nobody wants that shit. 

There's a hand ruffling his hair, fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp, just right and making pleasant shivers run down Clint's spine. “Mmmmm _mm_ ,” he says approvingly and wriggles a little.

“Tony,” Natasha snaps. “You are not doing that when Clint is this drunk.”

“Not even a little?” comes Tony's voice, sulking.

“ 's good,” Clint slurs into his best friend's shirt. “ 's r'lly good, 'Tasha.”

“I know, Clint. That's why Tony will stop. _Now_.” And the hand immediately retreats along with an annoyed huff from its owner. Natasha pets him on the head when Clint makes a vague noise that says he's less than thrilled with her meddling.

“I'm falling asleep,” Bruce says, and there's rustling. “It's been great, guys.”

“I have the besht ideas ever,” Tony says with a blissful sigh.

“Yes, Tony,” Bruce says in his indulgent and slightly patronising tone, and Clint has another giggle-fit into Nat's shoulder. “Good night, everyone.”

“Fare thee well, good Banner,” Thor slurs, whose Asgardian-ness is even more pronounced now that he's drunk.

“I think I'll join you, doctor,” Steve says, before stuttering out “not – I mean, not in _that_ -”

“Capsicle, pumpkin, you're good,” Tony drawls. “Your virtue's pr'tected.”

“Clint, up,” Natasha says. “You're going to bed.”

And no, no, Clint really doesn't want to, so he whines until he gets a finger in the ribs, and then he groans and rolls over so he can see the ceiling swirl slowly in an counter-clockwise direction. “Y' guys'r all awes'm,” he says, happy. Everything's floaty and his mouth tastes like what Jim Beam smells like, and Nat's let him snuggle up against her for the better part of an hour. Clint feels safe and warm and a little loved, which is pretty much his peak moment when he's drunk.

He's also kind of horny, but eh.

When Natasha helps him upright, he can see her swaying, and grins. She grins back, not entirely unprotected, but close. So he kisses her because she's beautiful, and awesome, and cool, and also pretty. And the best. Natasha huffs a laugh and pulls back.

“Yes, Barton, I know you love me.” But her voice is warm.

“Awwww, so cute,” Tony coos. “And you _wonder_ why people ship you two?”

“Ship? There are ships?” Thor says and looks around, dropping his mug. Only a few drops of mead spill on the carpet, and Tony giggles like a mad scientist. Which is, Clint muses, exactly what he is. Sort of. He's also not going to reflect on where Tony has learned about shipping. Or why _Clint_ knows about shipping.

“Can you get to bed by yourself?” Natasha asks.

“Yesh. I m'n yes. Yeah. Yep.” Clint nods. “ 'solutely.”

Her mouth curls. “Okay, then. Good night, Clint.”

“Mmmm.” He clings to her for another moment before attempting to stand on his own two legs. It... kind of works, which is good enough, and he turns to wave at Tony and Thor. “G'niiiiight, guys. 's been an awes'me night.” He grimaces. “ 'ch is weird, 'cause it's not us'lly with hever nave I haver.” He frowns. “Wait.”

Tony laughs more, and so does Thor, and then Natasha pushes at his back and says “bed, now,” and Clint stumbles off. He's got his own floor, but it's just – too fucking far right now, and he's feeling lazy. So he stumbles through the long hallway leaving to their other sleeping quarters that Tony got them – probably for this exact reason, Clint muses as he bumps into walls and doors. Finally he reaches the third door on the left and stumbles inside, groaning with general happiness and relief at the ready-made bed waiting for him. It's huge and looks delicious, even if Clint hasn't slept in here before, and he wrestles out of his clothes before flopping onto the bed, naked as hell. Oh _yeaaah_. This is the good stuff. Soft-as-silk cotton, cool and fresh under him, smelling faintly of vanilla and laundry detergent. Clint squirms underneath the covers, reveling in the softness all around all of him, and lets out a happy noise into the fluffy pillow.

Mmm, fluffy pillow.

He's still kind of horny, but he's also tired, so he can't be bothered to get off on his own right now. Tiredness and sleep is closing in on him, fast, so Clint spreads out fully in the big bed and lets himself get dragged under.

~*~

Clint hears someone enter the room, and is awake before said person has the time to get over to the bed. When they do, Clint's up and ready, twisting their arm behind their back and hooking his other arm around their neck.

It's not until he hears the yelled “Hey- ow! The _fuck_ , Clint?!” and feels metal beneath one of his hands instead of flesh, that Clint lets his instinct take the backseat in order for his logic to come through.

“Oh, sh- Tony!” Immediately he releases the genius, who groans in pain and rolls his shoulder. Guy's gotta have a fucking death wish to sneak up on Clint while he's sleeping, the fuck. “I'm really sorry,” Clint says, and promptly squirms back under the covers when he remembers that he's still   
naked. “But why the hell're you in my room, man?” Now that the adrenaline's not as potent, his mind starts to alcohol-muddle again. He can't have been sleeping more than a few minutes, because he doesn't feel rested at all.

“I'm not,” Tony says sourly, still massaging the shoulder Clint nearly ripped out of its socket. “This is my room.”

“Nah, 's mine.”

“No, Katniss Everdeen, this is _my_ room.”

Clint blinks at the guy, who looks completely serious – and still sour. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Tony snipes. “So if you don't mind?”

It takes a couple of seconds before Clint gets the implications – _so get the hell outta my room_ – and when he does, he whines. “Oh, c'm _on_. I was _sleeping_. 's is the best bed ever.”

Finally Tony's face cracks into an amused, drunken smile. “Course it is. It's _my_ bed. Which I'm gonna lie in, whether you're in it or not.”

“ 'kay,” Clint says, sensing the opportunity to stay; which means he doesn't need to get dressed again, and then fumble for his own room. He's clearly forgotten where it is, so the chances are big that he'll jump someone else unsuspecting. Nah, stay here. Here's nice.

The silence prompts Clint to pry open his eyes. Tony looks... baffled, maybe?

“You don't – mind?”

“Nn. D'nt care. Sleep.” Clint buries his head in the heavenly pillow again.

“Okay, but if Natasha kills me tomorrow, I'm blaming you.” Sounds of Tony undressing, and Clint grunts in acquiescence. Then there's cold slipping into the warmth, cool air across his body, and Clint whines low until there's a warm something almost touching him and the mattress has dipped with the added weight.

“You're a whiner,” Tony mutters and shifts; squirms to get comfortable. “Wait. Are you gonna wake up and decide to try and kill me again?”

“Wasn't tryin',” Clint murmurs into his pillow. “ 'f I were, y'd be dead. And no.”

“Right, yeah, that makes me feel a lot better,” Tony huffs, but he doesn't move away. Instead he turns onto his side, a little closer to Clint but not really coming onto him – not that Clint can notice, at least.

Clint rolls over onto his other side, so he faces away from Stark – he doesn't like people staring at his face in his sleep. It's creepy. When he does, he brushes the warm body next to him, which – oooh, really warm. Nice.

“What the- are you going commando, Barton?” Tony's voice is a little strangled.

“Mmm. M're comfrtblll.” He doesn't manage the whole word, tongue too tired to bother, but Tony laughs anyway. It's a weird, stiff laugh.

Clint giggles. _Stiff._ It's a funny word.

“Y'know, you're makin' it really hard for me not to come on to you right now,” Tony says, but he's not touching Clint, so it's all cool.

“Nnn,” he grunts. “Too drunk. Sleep.”

“I _know_ , Legolas,” Tony huffs. Then: “Wait... so what about when you're not drunk anymore?”

“Mhmmmm,” Clint says.

“... awesome.”

“N't, T'ny.”

“G'night, Catnip.”

Clint giggles his way into sleep.

~*~

When Clint wakes the next morning, cotton-mouthed and heavy with a pounding hangover-headache, there's a dick poking into his ass.

He spends a moment taking stock of the situation; realizes that said dick probably belongs to Tony (and so does the chest that's pressed against his back), remembers that he'd fallen asleep in Tony's bed and the billionaire had let him, and that – at some point – there had been allusions to sober sex. Possibly from Clint.

Huh.

Fair enough. 

He shifts his hips slightly, presses back against the hard-on there, and waits for a reaction. He gets one; a low, quiet moan and a shift of the body pressed against him.

“Please tell me you're awake, Barton. I really don't wanna assault you in your sleep. It's just bad form.” Tony's voice is scratchy from alcohol and sleep, and pre-caffeine muddled, but definitely awake. A hand settles on Clint's hip, but doesn't move further. “Plus, you'd probably   
unconsciously stab me to death or something.”

“ 'wake enough.” He wriggles a little.

A warm huff of breath against his neck. “You expect me to do all the work?”

“Got a hangover,” Clint says, but he pushes into it when the hand moves to trail up and down his thigh, slowly, languidly.

“So do I.”

“Nah.”

One moment. “Yeah, okay, no. But I'm still sleepy.” He shifts closer, presses more firmly against Clint's back. His arm comes down to trail across his chest instead.

“Guess we gotta call it off, then,” Clint bullshits, and notes how he's started to wake up in certain parts of his body as well. Mmm, neat.

“Now that's just mean, Tweetybird.”

Clint snorts and turns over so he can see the annoying asshole he's about to fuck, and sees a strange softness in Tony's smile that he isn't used to. “So, what's this, then?” Clint asks and smiles. “ _Are_ you trying to get the full Avenger set?”

Tony laughs, throaty and quiet. “Nah, you heard Steve. No chance there.” His hand's on Clint's hip now, and draws circles with rough fingertips.

“I don't care what you want this to be, Stark – I just like knowing what I'm getting into.” He doesn't mean it as an accusation, and he's glad when it doesn't sound like one. Tony just shrugs with a tilted smile.

“I like sex. That's... pretty much it.” He thinks for a moment. “Of course, it does help that you're, like, mind-numbingly hot.”

“Why, Mister Stark,” Clint says and bats his eyelashes. “You make a country-boy blush.”

Tony laughs, tells him to shut up, and kisses him. Or maybe Clint kisses him.

It's all good either way.

~*~

To absolutely no one's surprise, Tony's really good in bed. It would be strange if he wasn't, considering how many people the playboy's slept with in the last ten years alone. Clint isn't exactly the once-a-year kind of guy himself, but he's pretty sure that Tony's number counts double of his own. Not that either of them really care; more partners just means they're both awesome at what they do.

Natasha doesn't say anything when Clint tumbles out of Tony's room and into the kitchen late-morning, but she does hand him a coffee mug and fix him with a stare that says _I judge you very hard right now_.

“Oh, come on,” Clint sighs and sips his coffee. “Like you really thought it wasn't going to happen at some point. It's _Stark_.”

“That doesn't mean I don't judge you,” she says easily and cracks her breakfast muffin in two to share with him. He lets it go. It's blueberry, his favorite.

“Good morning, Miss Romanoff!” Tony doesn't walk into the kitchen. He struts, like a fucking rooster, and Clint rolls his eyes.

“You weren't _that_ good, Stark.”

Tony makes a 'pssh' noise and pokes around in the fridge for one of his disgusting shakes. “That was pretty above-average, Orion, and you know it.”

“Please stop talking,” Natasha says into her coffee cup.

Clint grins and kisses her cheek. It's early enough in the morning that he can do that without a retaliatory punch.

“Awww,” Tony says and sits down across the table from them, chugging down his murky green milkshake like he's getting paid for it.

Clint notices Natasha eyeing Tony with a sort of _what do you see in that_ way. So he leans over and whispers, loud enough that he knows Tony will hear, “He's really good at swallowing.”

Tony chokes on his milkshake and splutters it out; over himself, his clothes, the table. It's fucking beautiful. Natasha sets down her mug and walks out of the room without a word. Clint laughs until his sides hurt.

~*~

It becomes a semi-regular thing. After missions, when they need to get rid of some excess adrenaline and energy. On really slow nights, when they're bored. When they can't sleep. When they want to.

That's the great thing about being two guys who like to have sex a lot: they get to, well, have sex a lot.

Tony's strangely generous in bed, actually. He's toppy as hell, no matter if he's giving or receiving, but he's adamant that Clint get as many orgasms as himself, and he's really good with some of the triggers Clint has. There's not a lot of them, not in bed, but there are a few.

“So... no grabbing there, then,” Tony says and trails his fingers over Clint's throat. Clint knows he's feeling his pulse. “Damn, and I have such an asphyxiation kink, too.”

Clint snorts. “I hope you're kidding. 'Cause I'm open for a lot of stuff, man, but choking me's... not gonna work out for everybody.”

Tony laughs, but it's soft, not mocking. “I am.” Then he looks contemplative. “How are you with spanking, though?”

Clint chuckles, and Tony leans down to kiss him breathless before he can answer.

That's a thing becoming more and more frequent, actually; the kissing. Before sex, during, after. Sometimes randomly, even. When they meet up in a hallway in the Tower, or watch a movie together while the other Avengers are otherwise occupied. It's... strangely nice. Feels normal, almost, which is a ridiculous thought because of their lives and Tony being, well, _Tony_. 

It's after one of Clint's undercover missions, three days of playing nice and hiding in plain sight before he could get where he needed and take out the people he should. He'd been grazed when getting out too, but it's nothing big; just nicked in the shoulder by a stray bullet. Bad luck more than anything. It doesn't even bother him much, now that he's back home and out of Medical.

He's too tired and strung out for anything acrobatic, but he still finds his way to Tony's room. Tony is still up, working on his tablet in bed, sprawled with his feet poking out from beneath the silky covers. He looks up at Clint when he comes; grins.

“Hey, honey. You're home.”

Clint just huffs, a sign of his exhaustion right there, and wrings off his clothes. “I'm too – I'm fucking beat, man,” he sighs when he's down to his boxer-briefs, and climbs onto the bed. For the first time, it strikes him that Tony's well within his right to kick him out. Maybe he should've done this while clothed.

“Tough mission?” Tony says and glances at the bandage covering Clint's shoulder.

“Not too bad, but I haven't slept in three days. Can I just... crash here?” He grimaces at the awkward phrasing, but Tony nods and scoots over.

“ 'Course you can.” No joke, no leering, no inappropriate comment. And strangest – and probably best – of all, no halting 'look, I think you should go back to your own room if you're just going to sleep'.

Clint slips under the covers still half waiting for the other shoe to drop, or any shoe to drop, really, but Tony just closes his tablet and tangles their legs. He curls around Clint, who goes mellow at once.

They don't say good night. They just lie there, entangled, and slowly drift off.

~*~

Clint stops sleeping in his own bed, for the most part. When he does, Tony sleeps beside him. He starts making Tony coffee in the mornings, when he's up earlier; Tony will shuffle in, usually a couple of minutes later, and inhale the caffeinated drink faster than can be any kind of healthy. This way, Clint can make sure that it's not hot enough to scald Tony's throat and tongue.

They start to _cuddle_ , an oddity Clint isn't even aware of until one movie night, when he wakes up long after the movie's done and the others have gone to bed. He's lying with his head in Tony's lap, and Tony plays with his hair while he watches a re-re-re-run of Beverly Hills 90210.

“Mwuh,” Clint says and stretches his legs, but doesn't move.

“Yep, you got that right,” Tony says and looks down at him. His eyes are fond.

“You didn't wake me up?” Clint manages around a yawn and presses into Tony's warm hands.

“You looked all cute and Sleeping Beauty. I'm a weak, weak man.”

Clint smiles, but it feels odd on his face, and the last two months suddenly spin through his head to add an uncomfortable amount of evidence. “Tony?”

“Mm?”

“Are we dating?” It's cheesy as hell, but it's been over two weeks since they last had sex without some kind of other mushy activity attached to it, and as much as they agreed about the no-strings arrangement, Clint can't help but realize that he's got quite a few strings attached to this crazy bastard by now.

Tony blinks, surprised, and his hands still in Clint's cropped hair. Something passes over his face, and Clint figures that Tony's doing the same epiphany-thing as he just did.

“Well, fuck,” Tony says, and sounds a little strangled. “We are, aren't we?”

~*~

“Tasha?” Clint says the next morning, when he finds her in the training room kicking Cap's ass. “How long have Tony and I been dating?” Tony's right behind him, wearing one of Clint's t-shirts, and Clint's wearing Tony's sweatpants. It wasn't a conscious decision for either of them, which is freaky as hell.

“Two months, just about,” Natasha says and twists to jab an elbow in Steve's side before ducking to avoid a fist in the face.

“Really?” Steve says, barely winded, kicking Natasha in the stomach, but she twists enough that it barely grazes her. “I thought it was just a month and three weeks.”

“Nope,” she says and somehow manages to get behind the Captain, driving him to the floor with a well-aimed kick to the back of his knees. “Remember the toast?”

“Ouff!” Steve goes to the floor, but turns around immediately, just as Natasha tries to knee him in the back. He grips her leg and she lets herself fall to the ground, where they resume their wrestling match. “Oh, yeah! I remember!”

“What?” Tony says. “Toast?”

But the two of them don't bother replying, too busy ripping each other apart. Clint shrugs and looks over at his – boyfriend? Is that what Tony's supposed to be right now? Because Clint's gotta be honest; that thought freaks him out just a little. He's not good with relationships. On that thought, neither is Tony.

“Looks like I was right,” he says out loud, and Tony sighs.

“I'm... gonna be down in the workshop for a while. Don't wait up.” He leaves, and Clint looks after him, telling himself firmly that he does _not_ feel rejected.

~*

Clint doesn't avoid Tony. It's not needed; the genius does a fucking _smashing_ job by himself, and Clint can't be bothered to give any shits. He won't be bothered by it. Natasha doesn't say 'I told you so' and he appreciates it, truly does, especially since she's well entitled to because _fuck_.

Clint has _got_ to stop sleeping with the people he works with.

Although, a small and mean voice in his head points out, Tony's bedded half the team already, and neither Bruce nor Thor seem to have any trouble hanging out with him. Clint's half tempted to preposition Thor in some fucked up kind of revenge, but he realizes that if he does that, 1) his life will be a Lifetime movie, 2) he'll probably lose another friend, and 3) this time, Nat will _definitely_ kick his ass.

So he sulks a little, maybe, when he's alone in his bed. Alone. Because Tony has stayed in his own bed this week, when he hasn't just camped out in his workshop (which are most days, from what Clint can see). Clint's nightmares come back, although they never really left, it was just a lot easier to forget about them with a warm body close by. Not to mention that Tony's arc reactor has the same eerie blue color as the Tesseract, and it was a strange kind of comfort to wake up and see it lighting up the room; press his fingers against it and hear the faint hum. It made that particular shade of blue safe in Clint's mind again. Like he could scrub out the last remains of Loki by somehow belonging to Tony's reactor instead of the Tesseract.

_You have heart_. And so does Tony.

Clint starts sneaking into Natasha's room again, and she usually lets him curl up with her, because she knows what horrors lurk in his subconscious. He knows hers, too.

~*~

Clint's watching _Cupcake Wars_ in the living room – which is otherwise deserted, for once – when Tony saunters in and flops miserably down onto the couch next to him. Tony's the only person Clint knows who can flop miserably. It's a skill.

He ignores the sulking genius and watches Lindsay decide on a red velvet. _Always the goddamn red velvet,_ Clint sighs to himself. He half wishes Phil were here so Clint could bitch at him about bad cupcake decisions, but their handler is currently in Arizona doing level 7 stuff that Clint is 'not privy to', no matter how good he is at hiding in Phil's ceiling.

Tony sighs again, dramatically, and glances over at Clint to look for a reaction. Clint doesn't give him one, so Tony rolls over onto his side on the couch, like a little kid. “So I miss the sex.”

Clint's stomach does a weird little tumble that Clint is definitely not going to analyze later, and he folds his arms and keeps his eyes on the screen. Lindsay's bitching at her sister already and they're only in the preliminary round; she's going _down_.

Tony pouts. “Are you still mad about the... thing?”

“I'm not a thirteen year old girl, Stark,” Clint says, his voice level.

Tony winces. “Ouch, back to last names again. Okay, so I reacted kind of not-awesomely, but I mean, it came out of the blue and I've only been thinking about it for six days and it's not like we ever-”

“God, shut _up_ ,” Clint grits out and grabs the remote so he can turn up the sound and drown out Tony's babble.

Tony squirms on the couch, but keeps a small distance. Probably knows that Clint would take him down if he violated his personal space right now. “Make me?” Tony tries, and sounds hopeful.

Clint flips him the bird without looking at him.

Tony grouses next to him for a few minutes more, until he gives up and shuffles back out.

Lindsay doesn't win. Hah. Clint totally called it.

~*~

“The thing is,” Tony says when Clint walks out of his apartment the same night. Tony sits outside Clint's door with bleary eyes and soot all over his shirt. “I'm not great at relationships. Ask anyone. Ask Pepper. No, wait, don't ask Pepper because she knows too much,” he adds and waves his hands, stumbling to his feet. “Pepper would tell you to run in the other direction and the thing is, the _thing is_ , Barton – Clint – that I don't want you to.” He blinks owlishly at Clint and sways a little. “Run,” he clarifies, forehead creasing. “I'd like there to be... not running, please. Not _more_ running, at least, which I totally admit, I did most of the running, but... yeah. Stopping now.”

Clint doesn't know if Tony means that he'll stop talking or stop running, but the guy trails off, so Clint gets a part-answer. He tries to catch the Tony's gaze. “Are you hammered, Stark?”

“Absolutely,” Tony says and leans heavily against the wall across from Clint. “What, you think I'd _voluntarily_ talk to you about this? It's like you don't know me at all.” He grins and looks very lost.

“Who made you talk?” Clint asks, because Tony is drunk all the time and he's never awkwardly confessed his feelings or anything before, which– Clint will get right on having conflicted thoughts about that in a second, he just needs to finish up here first.

“JARVIS, the traitor,” Tony mutters and stares at the floor. “Don't ask.”

Clint blinks and looks at the ceiling, but the AI stays silent. Huh.

“We never actually dated, did we?” Tony asks out of the blue and scrunches his nose. He stumbles forwards and clutches Clint's door frame to keep upright. “I'm pretty sure I would've remembered that.”

“No,” Clint says, because they didn't. They fell into bed and fell out of it again.

“Right,” Tony says. “So, can we date?”

Clint does a mental double-take, one Tony wouldn't be able to see even if he was stone-cold sober. “I thought we agreed that wouldn't be a good idea.”

“No no,” Tony says and shakes his head violently, something that throws him off-balance again. “No, _we_ decided no strings, and then there were strings, strings everywhere except they were _invisible_ strings, you know? Ninja strings.”

“You're saying 'strings' a lot.”

“Yeah, 'cause there were a lot of strings!” Tony says, and sounds delighted that Clint gets it even though Clint really doesn't get it. “And then I ran. Because I do. That. Because it's better than watching you run.” He sighs.

Clint shifts his stance; it's not fidgeting, he tells himself firmly, especially when Tony's too drunk to notice. “So why are you asking us to date, then?”

Tony deflates a little, caught between looking sulky and dejected. “Because... because the strings! There are still... strings. Stupid strings,” he mutters, apparently to himself, before he looks up at Clint with swimming eyes. “Also I miss the sex.”

“Yeah,” Clint says slowly. “You mentioned that.”

Tony makes a small, disgruntled noise and rubs his face, except he miscalculates the motion and it turns into more of a slap that swipes across his cheek and into his ear. “Ow. I'm not doing this right, am I?” And now he just looks hopeless. Like a puppy who's peed on the carpet and hasn't been chewed out by its owner yet, but knows what's coming.

Clint snorts. “I don't have a lot of previous experience, Stark, but no. I don't think so.”

“Fuck,” Tony says and stares at the wall. “Pepper would know what to do. Right! I should call Pepper! Pep-perrr.” And he fumbles his phone out of his pockets to squint at the screen.

Clint snatches the phone.

“Ey! No! That's – you _stealer_ ,” Tony says and looks wounded. He stumbles forward and into Clint, scrabbling to get the phone back.

“Tony, it's three in the morning. You're not going to call your CEO and ex-girlfriend.”

“Of course I am, just – _gimme_ ,” he whines and tugs at Clint's sleeve. Clint keeps his hand high and the phone out of Tony's reach. They're just as tall, but Clint has sobriety on his side.

Clint can't help but laugh. Tony's so goddamn pitiful like this, and a strange sort of adorable, and when he gives up, he grumbles and just slumps forward a little, hiding his face in the crook of Clint's shoulder.

He mumbles something into Clint's skin that sounds like _evil assassin douchebag agent man_ and Clint only laughs more. He pockets the phone but doesn't push Tony away. The guy isn't being handsy; not even clingy. Just... leaning against Clint, still swaying.

“Smell good,” Tony says, quiet and sad.

Clint closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall. “C'mon.”

Tony looks up and doesn't pull back, which means he's close enough that Clint could count his eyelashes if he wanted to. “Muh?”

“I'm not gonna send you back into that elevator,” Clint says and turns around, slides an arm around Tony's waist and guides him into his apartment. “JARVIS won't be there to pick you up if you start choking on your own vomit.”

“Not _that_ drunk, Farton,” Tony says, and promptly doubles over laughing at his own tasteless joke. “ _Fart_ ,” he gasps out as Clint half-drags him through the living room area and into the bedroom.

“Yeah, you're fucking hilarious, Stark.” Clint pushes him onto his bed, gently, and starts unbuttoning Tony's dark-red shirt. “Tell me; when exactly did _I_ become the reasonable grown-up of the two of us? I feel like Captain America, for crying out loud.”

“ 'lfway into the Perón bottle?” Tony offers. It sounds like a genuine question.

Clint rolls his eyes and tugs Tony's shirt off. “Yeah, that'd do the trick.”

He manages to wrangle Tony out of his clothes without much interruption, only a quiet “Make-up sex?” that Clint doesn't even bother to address. As soon as Tony's underneath the covers, he's out cold, and Clint's left to undress himself in peace. He hangs up Tony's discarded clothes while he's at it; he's a slob by nature, but Coulson's been a good influence.

Once Clint is in bed, Tony makes a quiet, questioning noise and actually _rolls over_ to plant his face firmly in the crook of Clint's neck. He's half-sleeping on Clint now, half beside him, and Clint doesn't bother to push him off. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to sleep, and lets his hand find Tony's deceptively soft hair. Tony sighs and burrows deeper into Clint's skin.

Clint's missed this more than he's missed the sex. He doesn't want to linger on that thought, but he does.

~*~

Clint wakes long before Tony, and has time to take a shower and eat breakfast before Tony staggers into his relatively modest living room. He looks a little green around the edges, but mostly okay, so Clint nods at him. “Morning.”

“Did we make up?” Tony asks, his whole face scrunched up in confusion and an attempt to remember yesterday.

“Sorta,” Clint says. _Say Yes to the Dress_ is on in the background and he follows it with one eye.

Tony brightens considerably at that. “Awesome! Did we have make-up sex?”

Clint chuckles. “No.”

“Right,” Tony says and drapes himself over Clint. “We should get on that, then. It's important to establish routines.” He nods faux-seriously.

“You foreseeing a lot of fighting in the future, then?” Clint says and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Hi, have you met me?” Tony says. “ 'Unreasonable asshole' is kind of my personality description.” He frowns. “Wait, am I selling myself right here?”

Clint chuckles. “Yeah, you're doing a bang-up job, Tony.”

“Aaaand we're back on first-name basis!” Tony says and does an actual fucking fist-punch in the air. “Score one for Stark!”

“Jesus, you're obnoxious.”

“And horny. And out of those two, only one can be remedied, I'm afraid.” Tony sighs dramatically before he straddles Clint and brushes their lips together. It's a strangely chaste kiss, for all the verbal bravado, and Clint leans into it. He ignores the shiver that travels down his spine when Tony's goatee scratches against his chin.

Tony grinds down against him, and Clint's hands settle on his hips on their own accord. “Yeah,” Tony sighs out and nips lightly at Clint's lips. “We should fight all the time.”

“Yeah, let's not,” Clint murmurs back and doesn't miss the way Tony's smile widens.

~*~

“So you're not running away?” Clint hears himself say after, when he thinks he's about to take a nap. His body's pleasantly loose and post-orgasm sore, Tony is a heavy but welcome weight on him, and they haven't said a word since Tony dragged them back into the bedroom. But apparently, now is the moment to talk.

Tony makes a disgruntled noise against Clint's ribcage. “I thought we'd made up.”

“We have,” Clint says. “Doesn't erase the question. You gonna run off every time someone asks if we're dating?” He frowns at the ceiling. “Also, for that matter, _are_ we actually dating?” The words make his stomach churn with nervousness, but he ignores it.

“I don't know,” Tony whines and flops off Clint onto the sheets beside him. He flings an arm dramatically over his face too, in case Clint somehow hasn't realized that Tony doesn't want to talk about this. “Yes? No? I don't know what you want me to say, Clint.”

“Me?” Clint looks over at him. Tony's face is still flushed, his chest pink with exertion against the Tesseract-blue of his arc reactor. It's warm, a couple of degrees warmer than Tony's body temperature, and Clint reaches out now to splay his hand over it. Tony's eyes go fond. 

“It's not about what I think, Tony,” Clint says. “All I asked was that you're honest with me – whether it's about us being in a relationship or fuckbuddies or something completely different. It's your choice.”

“Yeah, but –” Tony makes an annoyed sound and rolls over so he's facing Clint. “No. That's too easy. I don't _know_ , Clint. I don't know which one _you_ want.”

Clint buries the urge to giggle, because whose idea was this, anyway? They are both terrible at communication in general; how are they supposed to survive as boyfriends?

Then he revisits that thought and realizes what word he just used. “Um,” he says. Shuffles a little closer to Tony. Puts his hand on Tony's naked hip. “I dunno, man. But I'm not... I wouldn't fuck off if you were interested in more than just casual hook-ups, I mean.”

Tony leans into the touch, barely, but his eyes don't stray from Clint's. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Tony frowns and kisses Clint, cautiously, like he's checking something. Clint doesn't know what he's checking for, but he kisses back all the same. What starts out a little desperate turns languid, relaxed, comfortable. They're lying in bed, embracing, making out, and it's probably one of the gayer things Clint has done but he doesn't mind.

“I'm not great at relationships, Clint,” Tony murmurs when they pull back for air. “I mean, ask anyone. Except Pepper. Please don't ask Pepper.”

Clint doesn't bite down on his laugh this time. “You said that last night too.”

“I did? Well, there you go.” Tony's fingers trace a scar on Clint's lower back; stray bullet, Prague. It tickles.

“Yeah, well, I didn't listen back then either, did I?” Clint points out.

Tony purses his lips. “Why wouldn't you?”

“I don't know,” Clint says and leans forward until their foreheads touch. “But it'd be nice if you didn't prove my abandonment and trust issues wrong but high-tailing out of here. Just saying.”

Tony's breath ghosts hotly over Clint's cheek. “See, that's not playing fair, Barton. Now you'll just guilt me into staying.”

“If that's what it takes,” Clint says.

Tony goes quiet.

Clint leans back to grimace at him. “Kidding?”

“No no,” Tony says, sounding far away, shaking his head slowly. “That's actually... uh, weirdly flattering.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” They creep closer again, under the covers, until they're cocooning each other.

“So we going for it, then?” Clint asks, feeling way too hopeful.

Tony snorts. “Yeah, sure. What could _possibly_ go wrong, right?”


End file.
